Coming Home for Christmas
by Yma
Summary: Wanda has a very… unique Christmas in this little seasonal story. Just a one shot. Please review!


Coming Home for Christmas

By Yma

Disclaimer: X-men Evolution does not belong to me, I am merely playing about with the concept and the characters. Don't sue. Thanks.

It was cold in her small cell, the eight bars on the window doing nothing to block freezing wind or flakes of snow, but Wanda didn't mind the cold too much.

It would help her stay awake, after all, and she needed to stay awake, this night more than any others.

It had turned dark quite a while ago, and the wardens had ordered lights out, so the only illumination came from the semi-full moon, an eerie light that was made brighter by reflecting on the crisp, white snow outside.

The window was too high for Wanda to see out of properly without lifting herself up by her scrawny arms, but she could see the moon, the stars, and the flecks of snow dancing down from heaven.

She bit her lip and huddled deeper in a corner, pulling her thin blanket further around her.

Come on, come on…

She knew it was wrong to be so impatient, but she'd felt that she had waited half an age for this time already; she needed him to come, come soon. She needed to be free again, to be out of this horrible place. To feel the touch of snow and wind and sun upon her skin.

She'd made all the right preparations, she thought, or she'd done her best at least. They didn't let her have any paper or pens in here, didn't let her have much of anything. But she'd stolen some toilet paper from the lavatory, and, using her own blood, had managed to write the best letter she could. Then she'd lifted herself up by the bars of the window, and thrown the makeshift letter out, watching as the wind had carried the frail thing away.

She'd done all she could, now she just had to wait for him to come.

Please let him come.

More time passed, the room became darker as the moon, shifting position in the sky, drew away from her window.

She paced up and down, rubbing her arms to keep warm, wishing her bare feet were not so chilled on the cold floor.

Perhaps he hadn't received her letter… perhaps the delicate paper had been destroyed by rain or snow… no… no, he had to had gotten it, he had to have it. He got all letters, right? Even when you burned them. He had to have it. He simply had to.

Her eyes caught a flash or red outside, something moving across the sky.

She ran forward, and jumped up and down, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the flying object.

Was it… was it…?

No, she saw it clearer now; there were two little white lights besides the red ones, a familiar formation, an aeroplane.

She sighed and wondered where it was going, perhaps taking weary travellers back home to their families, back home for Christmas.

She remembered Christmas with her family, her adopted family, that is. They'd not been very rich, but they had enough money so that Christmas was always a fun affair. She'd sat next to Pietro at the table and argued with him over who got the most Turkey on their plate. It had been fun, though, and neither had really cared because, after the meal, there would be crackers to pull and silly hats to ware. And presents, all rapped in multicoloured paper, all waiting for their eager little hands to open. They hadn't argued over that, of all things, hadn't argued over what toys one had and one didn't have because, in those days, it didn't really matter, because the other twin was always willing to share.

There had been two sets of presents, the ones opened after dinner, and the ones opened just at he crack of dawn, when she and Pietro would wake up together, rushed down stairs and-

Her sweet trip down memory lane was suddenly interrupted by a sound, a jingling, tinkling sound that echoed round the corridors, like that of bells. She rushed to the tiny grill in her cell door, trying to spy out, her heart beating fast. She saw a shadow on the corridor wall, a large, plump shadow… a shadow with hard, dark boots, a shadow with a distinctive hat upon its head.

A flat, octagonal hat.

She leapt away from the grill and rushed to the hard bench that served as her bed, throwing the thin blanket around her. She lay there, still as death, trying to keep her breathing even, sleep-like as the guard, his keys still jangling on his hip, moved by.

When he had gone she rolled out of bed, trying to calm down. That had been close, she dreaded to think what might have happened if one of the guards had caught her awake at this hour.

She returned to her spot buy the window, trying to access the time, it was very dark now, the darkest point of the night. The guards tended to do patrols every three hours, this was the second one she'd heard that night, so it must be about three O'clock.

She was running out of time.

Perhaps he wouldn't come to her any more. Her father was Jewish, after all. But that didn't make sense, he'd always come before, always. She'd seen the presents, seen the proof. He had to come, he came to everyone who believed in him, and she believed in him with all her heart.

Besides, he couldn't abandon her, not after that letter. She'd put her heart and soul into that, tried to communicate how desperate she was, how much she needed him. Closing her eyes against the darkness, she recalled what she'd written on it, wishing she'd been a better speller.

"Dear Santa.

Plees help me, i am traped in a bad plase and i want to go home. Plees take me bak to my familee, i will bee good all yeer if you do!!! i tri to be good this yeer, but my reel dad makes me angree some times. I will even forgive Pietro if you can take me bak home to him and away from my dad.

Plees come to my window and reskue me.

Love Wanda Maximoff."

He had to come, didn't he? He couldn't just ignore a letter like that, and she had tried to be good, she really had!

She felt sure that, at any moment, she would hear him, would spy him out of the window and he would sweep down with all his reindeer and, using his magic, destroy the bars on the window, pick her up and carry her away.

She'd made this plan months ago, knowing that it was her only hope, her only way out. Santa would save her, he wouldn't let her down.

But he hadn't come yet, and the night was drawing thin.

She bit her lip again, and closed her eyes, wishing with all her heart that he would

come soon. He had to come, he just had to.

Please Santa, she prayed, Please, come, please! Please come!

It was defiantly becoming brighter outside. She could hear birds singing.

Where was he! He had a lot of kids to visit, sure, but he needed to come soon! He needed to!

She reached up, gripped the bars of her window and pulled herself up again, trying to catch a better glimpse of the outside world. She was right, it was close to dawn, she could see a dim, gold light spreading across the sky, soon the first fingers of sunlight would peek over the horizon and night would be over.

Soon it would be Christmas day.

'Oh Santa,' whispered Wanda, 'please, please, I'll never ask for anything ever again, I'll be good all year and every year round, I'll do anything but please, please come. Please!'

The light was getting brighter.

'Please, please come, please, please come, please!'

Her arms ached from holding her body up for so long, but she kept her hands clenched on the window bars. She wouldn't let go, not now, not as the lower sky became increasingly more orange and less blue.

'Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please-'

Wanda's chant, as urgently whispered as any death prayer, broke abruptly. For, lazily, casually, the first ochre finger of sunlight, the first splinter of dawn, shattered the horizon and the sun reared its honeyed head.

The night was over.

It was Christmas day.

Her arms were too weak to support her any longer, with a soft moan Wanda dropped to the ground and then slumped to the floor, her legs also losing their strength.

He hadn't come. He'd abandoned her.

Why? Why hadn't Santa come?

The question rang through her head like a death knell, why hadn't Santa come, this year of all years?

The answer came to her suddenly, a stab in the chest. She remembered the previous Christmases, the sly smiles her foster parents had shared at the mention of Father Christmas, their insistence that she and her brother must go to bed early, or else Santa wouldn't come!

She understood then why that was, why he wouldn't come, why he would never come.

It was a lie.

Just like her 'family' was a lie.

Just like everything else was a lie.

She crouched against the floor, tears of sadness, anger and despair coursing like rain water down her cheeks. She was alone again.

Above her the first, golden light of Christmas spilled though the window bars and landed on the hard floor of Wanda's cell. Not that she took any notice, or even cared.

It was Wanda Maximoff's ninth Christmas upon this earth.

It was the Christmas she stopped believing in Santa Clause.

End

Please review!

Also, I've several more Christmassy fics written, if you like this then please comment and I'll post them here too. Cheers.


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